


Target Fixation

by FallingFaintly



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: Christmas Party, Dancing, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:02:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28091343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FallingFaintly/pseuds/FallingFaintly
Summary: Target fixation:an attentional phenomenon observed in humans in which an individual becomes so focused on an observed object (be it a target or hazard) that they inadvertently increase their risk of colliding with the object.Target fixation is caused by becoming focused on one thing that is usually distracting, dangerous, or rewarding.
Relationships: Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Comments: 20
Kudos: 87





	1. Focus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hidetheteaspoons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hidetheteaspoons/gifts).



It was unseasonably warm. Robin found it quite oppressive, when she had wanted the sharp kiss of cold air on her cheeks, to be surrounded by festive reds, greens and golds and dressing every morning in too many layers that had to be peeled off and discarded by the time she got to the office. It wasn’t even like the weather was pleasant – it was muggy, damp and grey while there was any daylight. Christmas cheer was conspicuously absent from the scowling faces around her as she made her way to the tube after locking the office up. She was properly out of sorts now herself, and no doubt cast as much gloom as the figures she passed, huddled against the wet.

She wasn’t in the mood for a party, but she really didn’t have a credible reason not to go. Strike had previously suggested they invent a new client and organize some surveillance that accidentally coincided with festive engagements that they both felt reluctant about. “We could legitimately use ‘Santa’ as a name for the imaginary client,” he’d said, amused with his own suggestion. Robin had indulged in the joke a little, batting about ideas for following Santa and discovering exactly what he got up to with his elves at the North Pole.

She wasn’t feeling as warm towards Strike this evening. It would be nice to think they could have got out of this particular event, but the invite had been made by their most recent delighted celebrity client, Leather Trousers, with a ‘Plus anyone else you want to bring along’. Strike had mentioned the invite during a quiet drink with their friends, which had caused a snowball effect that now meant a group of around 20 people now relied on Robin and Strike’s presence to guarantee entry to a Christmas party where they could gawk at various actors and popstars and the most recent contestants from I’m A Celebrity.

When Strike had then had to deal with Lucy having a domestic crisis involving a roof leak and Greg breaking down on the way to get home in time for the big evening out, Robin had been left to lock up while practically everyone else they knew was getting ready for the big event. Pat, to her credit, wasn’t that bothered by the whole thing. “Why would I want to spend an evening with the idiots from I’m a Celebrity?” She rasped. “Bunch of wet lettuces this year.” But she’d still been quite happy to take Robin up on her suggestion that the Office Manager could leave early.

So it was that Robin found herself getting ready in the office, and now sat glumly on the tube in the glare of fluorescent light, happy only that the warmer weather meant the fir green chiffon dress wouldn’t be inadequate with only a light coat over it. 20 minutes later, she emerged from North Greenwich tube station onto the wide expanse in front of the peculiar gigantic squat shape of the O2, with its distinctive yellow struts like huge HB pencils jammed into a deflating balloon.

She walked briskly. There was a lot of ground to cover to get round the main building to the nightclub, Building Six, on the opposite side and a break in the drizzle was welcome, but probably short-lived. She was later than everyone else and Strike had already texted to say they had met up and all gone in. He’d at least begun the text asking if she was ok, and he’d ended it with his now customary kiss. Once through the barrage of noise, camera flashes and security, she found herself in a multi-coloured wonderland, with absurd bright lime coloured Christmas trees and, for some reason that probably made sense to a media executive, a general theme that appeared to be set around a flamingo wearing a santa hat. She had been handed a glass of something fizzy and pink.

The music was bass heavy, but every third song was familiar, either a current or Christmas hit. She found herself looking up from a rectangular dance floor full of people to at least two balconies circling it with even more. The lighting was a combination of pink and green and she noticed the lit floor seemed to pulse with the movement of the people on it. She had texted that she was there before she got in the building, and now she was inside, feeling the thrum of vibration from the floor beneath her more strongly than she expected, she texted again. The reply was swift.

**On the Terrace. Come and find me.**

Robin made her way up to the outdoor terrace, a wide area of decking over-looking the Thames, and it was surprisingly easy to spot her large partner, head and shoulders above almost everyone else, leaning against a dark wooden post, smoke curling round him.

“Well, you’re the life and soul,” she said, coming up beside him.

“I’m festive on the inside,” he said, taking a last drag and grinding his cigarette out, leaning down to kiss Robin’s cheek. “You look great,” he added, his hand on her elbow.

“It’s a bit quieter out here, at least,” she acknowledged, taking a first sip of the pink fizz and pulling a face. “Bloody hell, this is…”

“Like Disinfectant-flavoured Tizer, I know,” he laughed, taking it from her and pouring it into the pot of one of the palm trees that were dotted about. “Want a proper drink?”

~~~~~~~~~~

Strike had not only enjoyed the banter about the Santa decoy client, he was actually quite serious. It would suit him down to the ground to not only have a ready excuse to avoid certain social events, but to have a secret to share just with Robin. She had clearly taken it for a joke, and when he’d mentioned the very open invitation from Leather Trousers in the pub, before he’d quite realized what he’d unleashed, he really wished he’d made his own intentions clearer.

A social evening out, making a bit of an effort, wasn’t something he was reluctant about with Robin. But bringing along an enormous entourage of friends and the eager attentions of the press was. It had been his own fault. He was buoyant that evening in the pub, having solved the case, Robin sitting beside him, close enough to enjoy her perfume, pint in his hand, thinking that he was quite content if things stayed like this forever. His unspoken fears remained, but he reasoned that they had moved to a place where, if all he could do was just keep his focus on her, he would not only be happy, but he’d be able to avoid colliding with her and ruining everything.

He’d made a toast – “To lots more clients who pay their bills and throw out invites to parties like confetti!” – as a sideways comment on how bizarre it felt that the agency was now commanding such success. Of course ears had pricked up at the mention of party invites, as it was front page news who Leather Trousers actually was, and Strike had watched in horror as everyone sat with them, giddy with enthusiasm about the fast approaching festive season, egged each other on to text other friends to invite them along.

He cast a glance at Robin by his side, and though she was hiding it well, he could see her deflating on the inside. He felt like he’d just stood on a tube of toothpaste in front of her, and she was resigned to watching him trying to scrape it up and put it back, especially as the following week building up to the party had been one incremental catastrophe on top of another. When his sister had phoned in a panic early on the mid-December Friday of the party, with Greg waiting for the AA on a hard shoulder, having just noticed a slipped tile on her roof had been allowing a leak to develop in the incessant rain of the past two weeks, he fought an urge to get into the BMW and just keep driving. He’d phoned Robin to let her know he wouldn’t be in, and the edge of irritation in her voice as she said she’d lock up and see him at the O2 later made his stomach knot. How, in one week, had he lost his firm hold on things?

He spent the day with practicalities, and Greg was home much earlier than anticipated, but still late enough to make a trip to Denmark Street pointless, so he got ready at Lucy’s and left with them once the babysitter had arrived. Lucy picked up on his distracted mood as he fiddled with his shirt cuffs.

“Sorry, Stick. Is she meeting us there?”

He did a double-take, not having mentioned that he was thinking about Robin and wondering if he’d accidentally said something out loud. The flash of faux incomprehension that passed over his face seemed to amuse Lucy. “Oh right. Playing that game, are we? Whatever you say.”

When they had parked up, they walked to Building Six and waited for everyone in the group to congregate outside, enjoying the celeb-spotting. Strike texted Robin, asking if she was ok, and as he did so, the rain started getting more intense than the light drizzle, and the group agreed it was time to go in, so he let her know in the same text that the plan was now to meet her inside. The flash and pop of the cameras and the voices calling out for the attention of the famous detective as he passed did nothing to distract him from his thoughts about her.

Once inside, in a tall balconied room with garish, unnaturally coloured Christmas trees and festooned with inexplicably festive flamingos, the loud bass rhythm that had been heavy enough outside the building vibrated strangely through his prosthetic. He was handed a champagne glass of pink fizz which he drank before he registered what it was and winced at the taste. He looked down as he crossed the dance floor to find a bar and a place to wait for Robin, and saw each footstep seemed to light up the floor as he walked. He was still a bit distracted by the phenomenon when he looked up at the sound of a familiar voice shouting at him over the music.

“Kinetic dance floor, bruv!” Al Rokeby was laughing at Strike’s bemusement at the technology enhanced floor. Despite his downbeat and distracted mood, Strike rallied a little to see a familiar face that wasn’t in attendance because of him.

“It’s not going to do it all over the building, is it?” He asked, his hands in his pockets now he had discarded the poisonous pink liquid.

“Nah, just the dancefloor. What are you doing here? Didn’t think it was your scene,” his brother asked, as Strike motioned that he was making for the bar.

“Don’t ask,” Strike said.

“What are you having?” Al asked.

Strike asked for a whisky, deciding that he needed something powerful to take away the sugared antiseptic flavour of the pink stuff. He threw it back, letting out an appreciative sigh as it burned down into his chest.

“Is your Robin here?” Al asked, after taking a swig from his bottle of lager, bopping his shoulders to the rhythm of the chart hit thumping around them, his eyes raking over the people around him as much as they looked back to Strike. Strike was quite resolutely still standing opposite him.

“She’s running a bit late. Look, is there anywhere to smoke in here?” He asked, assessing his most pressing current need.

“There’s an outside terrace upstairs. Food up there too!” Al announced, unaware of how that information sealed Strike’s determination to get up there.

“Right, well,” he said, and Al was already clearly zoning in on a pretty brunette in a very tiny, sequinned dress, so nodded and clapped him on the shoulder in hearty goodbye. Strike cast a critical eye over the brunette, petite and wiggly, and found himself dealing with an unbidden and definite need to see the elegant curves and burnished blonde hair of his partner, and as he made his way up to the terrace, his phone buzzed. Robin had let him know she had arrived, but the bars on his phone dropped out before he could reply.

His cigarettes were already in his hand by the time he got up there, and as soon as he got out into open space, he lit up, breathing in the relief of nicotine, and scanning the area for the food, which he discovered was a collection of small paper cones with a range of finger food. He was disappointed with the faff, but he found enough little cones with mini chicken satays to make a few mouthfuls. He had another drink, and then his phone buzzed again. He texted Robin back to say he was on the terrace. He felt lighter knowing he was a few minutes away from seeing her, and he allowed himself to relax a little, leaning on a dark brown wooden post, looking out onto the river, and the lights of the buildings on the north bank. The rain had mercifully subsided, not even drizzle now. Deciding he would keep it light this evening, enjoy focusing on her company, careful not to overstep, it flickered through his mind that the little electric buzz just below his sternum was excitement. Feeling ridiculous, he squashed down the smile he realized was forming, his face suddenly much sterner than seemed appropriate for a Christmas party.

“Well, you’re the life and soul,” said Robin, beside him.

He was elated to see her, in a dress the colour of a real-life, not fake lime green Christmas tree, the chiffon material wound over each shoulder and round her waist like a Greek goddess, and the skirt flowing to her mid-thigh. He wasn’t lying when he told her he was festive on the inside, putting his hand out to take hold of her elbow as he kissed her cheek in greeting.

“You look great,” he said, judging that the more honest “You look absolutely fucking stunning” would probably be over doing it.

She sipped the pink fizz before he could stop her, pulling an appalled face at the taste, and he took it from her with a laugh and poured it away, offering to get her something better.

“Yeah, that was criminally awful,” she said as they made their way over to the terrace bar and the array of teeny cones with their assorted fillings. “Ooh, popcorn!” Robin said, picking one up and putting a light yellow puffed kernel in her mouth. She stopped chewing abruptly, her face registering surprise.

“What?” Strike said, laughing again.

“It tastes like cheese,” Robin replied, unimpressed. Strike was curious enough to take a few pieces from her cone himself, and he was quite happy to discover that they did indeed taste like cheese, and Robin handed him the rest of the cone, such as it was now. He tipped the rest of the contents straight into his mouth, and it was her turn to laugh, and she was soon one glass of white wine down and he could sense they were both beginning to properly loosen up.

“Where’s everyone else?” She asked.

“Mingling,” Strike told her, halfway down a Peroni himself. “I think Ilsa wants to get a selfie with Peter Andre.”

They had found a cushioned seating area with a little cover from the night, and Strike had allowed himself to recline a little, his good leg stretched out, his left hand resting on his bent knee above the prosthetic. Robin too was more casually inclined, leaning back, knees millimetres from his, and it occurred to him as he looked at her that you could transport them both to a sofa in a front room, football on the telly and he would feel just as content. He wished he could snap his fingers and do just that. She looked him in the eye and smiled a small smile as though she could sense what he was feeling. The thought sparked in his mind that her smile meant she felt the same but he dismissed it because she obviously didn’t know what he was feeling.

“You don’t want to seek out any selfies?” She asked.

“Nope,” he said. “I am quite happy right here. Unless you…”

He gestured, half joking, towards the other people, some of whom were recognizable faces.

“No, I’m good,” she replied, lightly. “I wouldn’t mind a dance though.” She added quickly. Strike blinked. He realized he’d let his mouth fall open slightly and was lost for words.

“I’m happy just to sit if you want,” she continued. “But I’m actually feeling a bit brighter now, and it is nearly Christmas.”

Strike could hear the slightest of quivers in her voice, and he thought to himself that maybe the temperature had dropped, and that the light breeze from the nearby water had made her cold. Telling himself that he acted out of concern for her body temperature, and not because of a rise in his own, he decided to haul himself up and held out his hand.

“Right then,” he said. It was a perfectly reasonable decision. She was right, as always, it was nearly Christmas. They were at a party, and she looked astoundingly good. There were at least two dance floors inside, and she wanted to dance. He assured himself that the proximity of dancing would in no way compromise his determination to keep things light. He was certain he was in complete control. Robin’s face shifted from the tentative expression with which she had made the suggestion, into a bright, beautiful smile that made her clear eyes sparkle. Strike felt all his calm internal assurances slip away as he realized he was about to step out onto the high-wire and falling wasn’t a possibility, it had already happened.


	2. Collision

Robin reached out to take Strike’s outstretched hand and allowed him to pull her to her feet. She had taken _herself_ by surprise by saying she wanted to dance. She had started the evening in a mood lower than a snake’s belly, but as soon as she’d seen him leaning on the wooden post, she’d forgotten her irritations. It occurred to her, as she watched him knock back the last few kernels of parmesan popcorn, that she loved how much he didn’t give a toss what people thought of him.

Hooking her hand through the crook of his elbow, she leaned into his bulk as they crossed the decking on the Terrace, making their way back inside. The volume and thump of the music stamped out any possibility of quiet conversation, but Robin realized she wasn’t that sorry, as Strike had to lean right in close to be heard, and the feel of his breath on her neck as he said they should have got another drink before coming back in was having an impact similar in scope to the bass reverberating through her body from the current song from the main dance floor beneath them.

“Shall we head to the bar in here then, first?” She returned, mirroring his lean into her. He nodded, and as he moved away, her hand dropped away from his straightening arm, and she felt the warmth of his large hand take hold of hers. It was a sensible thing to do in the throng of partygoers, of course, but it still hit a chime in her heart that felt appropriate to a venue covered in pink fairy lights. She could have chided herself for enjoying following behind him, his size creating a sense of parting waves in front of him as people let him through, her hand snug inside his, but she was actually having a wonderful time now, and as she heard the unmistakable guitar picking at the start of Elton John’s Step into Christmas beginning, she decided to just sink into the cheesy festive mood and hang the consequences.

At the bar Strike had no problem getting the attention of the barman and, overtaken with the giddy ridiculousness of the setting, Robin pointed at the blackboard with a list of cocktails behind the bar. Strike’s eyebrows lifted in surprise and leaned in again as she asked for the third one down. She had no idea what it was, and she noticed Strike watch her reaction as a tall flute full of blue curacao, champagne and vodka appeared. She flashed a warm smile as she took it and he leaned in.

“Hope it tastes better than the pink one!” He said. Casting caution to the wind, she took a large mouthful and was relieved that it was much more drinkable that the pink fizz that had kicked the evening off, and she nodded in approval. Strike pulled the top off the Peroni he’d decided to stick with. More festive tinkly bells followed on in the songs being played, this time from the new century, and the smoother sound of Ariana Grande, and Robin felt herself begin to sway to the beat. She was beginning to feel a little bit euphoric, and soon registered that she had almost reached the bottom of the glass, and Strike was still watching her, his eyes dancing with amusement.

She leaned in again, her hand on his chest to steady herself, which suddenly seemed necessary, raising herself on tiptoes to speak.

“What’s so funny?” She asked.

“Nothing,” he said. “You just look like you’re having a good time.”

“Wanna know a secret?” She giggled, and he nodded, conspiratorially. “ _I am!”_

He leaned in closer and said “Good!” with firm emphasis, before pulling back a little too quickly, so that she swayed, unsteadily. He reached out with his free hand on her upper arm to prevent her over balancing. There was no mistaking the glowing buzz of being a little drunk now, and she really didn’t care. She remembered that she wanted to dance, and she reached up for his hand to pull him towards the dance floor. He downed the last of his pint, nodding to her as he put the glass down and let her attempt to part the crowds as he had done, with not nearly as much success.

There was a dance floor on the second tier of the club, playing more hardcore dance music, but that wasn’t what a woman who had just had a stupid blue cocktail on a whim at Christmas wanted to dance to. By the time they had made their way down to the multi-coloured kinetic dance floor on the lowest floor, the Christmas cheese classic of Mariah Carey’s All I Want For Christmas had begun. Robin found herself singing along at the top of her voice, and making dramatic gestures with her arms towards her partner, who had a huge, delighted smile on his face as he shook his head slightly, letting her take his hand and giving her a few spins as she sang. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she had expected him to be a bit lumbering and heavy footed, but he managed to keep up with her theatricality perfectly well, and they were both laughing and hugging as the song began its repeat-to-fade.

As they swayed a little together, a song neither of them of recognized began, a warm female voice and the sound of soulful clicks, before a pleasantly wistful festive melody started – the kind of song that lent itself perfectly to swaying back and forward when you were a bit dizzy with drink, the exertion of dancing like a fool, and a very deep happy glow of something quite magical.

… _kiss me, or we’ll never know…_

Robin could feel herself swimming with the feeling of Cormoran being so close, and she dropped her head to his shoulder as they moved in time to the gentle syncopated rhythm, her heart beating double time, his arms round her waist.

… _you melt me when you get this close_ …

For some reason, she found she both desperately want to lift her head and look at him and couldn’t quite bring herself to do it.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Strike couldn’t quite dampen down the thrill of walking across the decking on the Terrace with his beautiful partner’s arm hooked into his, knowing that heads were turning to look at them together. It conjured up the feeling he’d first felt when he’d mastered a particularly fiendish knot and gained the respect of the local fishermen’s sons when he was in school in St Mawes. He looked down at her burnished bronze hair, which she’d obviously not had much opportunity to style, and having walked though a wet London, the chignon she had swept it up in had come a little loose, a few tendrils unfurled to frame her face and trail down her elegant neck.

Once inside, the volume of music was too loud for chatting easily, and Strike was slightly irritated by this until he realized that when he repeated his comment about getting another drink, he could justify leaning in close enough to get a lungful of her perfume, and even feel the warmth from her skin. It really didn’t hurt when she followed suit, but he tried to remember keeping it light, swallowing down the sensation of her breath on his neck, and briefly pulling away, dropping down the arm she was resting hers on. As he did so, his hand brushed hers, and like a magnet, he took a hold of it. He moved into the press of people, hoping he hadn’t given anything away in his face, and running through a whole, superfluous explanation in his head that he was just being practical in the busy venue.

A drink would do well to return this to a surer footing, and he managed to catch the eye of the barman easily. He asked for another Peroni, and looked down to see Robin leaning forward, eyeing the cocktail menu which was surrounded by those ridiculous flamingos. He leaned in to hear her.

“Can I have a Midnight Kiss?” She asked, a giggle in her voice, and his eyebrows shot up, very grateful he’d scanned down the list before she spoke and hadn’t completely misread the request, so knew she was asking for the third cocktail down, and not… he completed the order, trying not to think how he might have actually played that, if he had thought she was asking for something other than a drink.

Resuming his focus, trying to pretend he wasn’t in freefall, he watched her delight as he handed her the tall blue cocktail, and couldn’t resist another comment. He was matey, light-hearted. It was all fine. She took a large mouthful of the champagne cocktail, and then another, and he could see her now responding to the change in song, doing something with her body that started with her shoulders and seemed to sweep down to her hips, moving to the smooth rhythm. She was almost down to the bottom of her glass, and he couldn’t help enjoying Robin relaxed like this.

His returning sense of control was swept from under him when she suddenly swayed forward, putting her hand squarely in the middle of his chest, and asked him what was so funny. _Keep it light_. He told her she just looked like she was having a good time. When she responded by asking him if he wanted to know a secret, he felt his head swim a little, leaned in close to her, and he realized he was definitely going to kiss her, and that was not keeping it light, so he swerved at the last second.

“Good!” He said, a little too emphatically, pulling back so quickly she lost her balance, and he reached out to steady her. She hadn’t noticed his idiocy, and he thought he might have got away with it, and then she was tugging on his hand and he realized she hadn’t forgotten about dancing. Deciding that making a prat of himself on the dancefloor was marginally less dangerous than continuing to stand at the bar while she danced on her own next to him, tipsy, he drank as much of his remaining Peroni as he could while she pulled on his arm, nodding as he put the quarter-full glass down on the bar and followed her. They passed the alternative dancefloor, with a high energy techno beat thumping out from it, and he was grateful she kept going.

When they got down to the main floor, with its kinetic lighting, the dainty xylophone melody and sultry voiced beginning of that Mariah Carey song started, and Strike wasn’t at all prepared for Robin’s response. She turned back to him, one arm wide and high, the other splayed on her chest as she sang along, her head tilted coquettishly, striking dramatic poses with each phrase, and ending the intro pointing at him as she sang ‘you’, before completely giving into enthusiasm as the beat kicked in. He was mesmerised, unable to hold back the grin on his face, feeling his heart hammer, delighted by the sight of her being so charmingly silly. Unable to hold back the inner sense of ‘ _Fuck it’_ he’d been keeping at bay since she appeared by his side on the terrace, he gave in to the infectious joy, taking hold of her hand and twirling her around, matching her theatricality and laughter. By the time the song was ending, he was intoxicated by her sense of fun, and embraced her because he just couldn’t not.

They swayed together a little as the next song started, not one he recognized, but he was in no hurry to disentangle himself. In fact, as she slowed into the gentler rhythm, he knew he had no desire to be the one to break their contact, and he was desperately hoping she wouldn’t either. His hands round her waist, he tried to remember to breathe as she laid her head on his shoulder. He closed his eyes, pressing his cheek to her forehead, his own heart beating fast, the warmth of her so close, and he let himself sink into the blissful feeling he was sure would evaporate when she looked up and the music ended.

… _it’s getting late, but we don’t want to go_ …

He realized he was willing the song to go on and on, but it was clearly drawing to the end. He wanted to see her face, so he dared to lean back slightly, and she pulled up to meet his gaze. The backing track dropped out and the singer’s voice completed the last phrase.

… _so, baby kiss me or we’ll never know, we can blame it on the mistletoe…_

Freefalling, Strike’s eyes dipped to her mouth and back to her eyes, aware of her hands on his chest. He was sure there was a reason he had not wanted to do this, but he was fucked if he could remember or care what it was, and he bent his head to hers and their lips met and a feeling like a shot of pure morphine hit him right in the solar plexus.

~~~~~~~~~~

Robin could feel it coming all the way through the song once she’d registered the repeated refences to kissing, and she knew her reluctance to lift her head had been the inevitability of it. As he bent his head to hers, she knew that it wasn’t because of reluctance on her part, but because she was terrified that the euphoria that she was already feeling would be so overwhelming she might collapse with the intensity. As it was, her legs almost refused to support her, and she ran her hands up from his chest to the back of his neck and head to stop herself slipping away from him and breaking a kiss that felt like fulfilment and promise all wrapped up together. His hands on her waist went in opposite directions, one sweeping up her back, the other sinking down over her hip and round onto her backside. As sweet and silly as the blue cocktail and the dance to Mariah had been, this was pure passion and it was a few minutes before Robin remembered they were on a dancefloor, in public. She broke the kiss for oxygen related reasons, and Strike looked dazed as she did so, his pupils dilated. She wasn’t sure, but for a second she thought she saw fear there, until he seemed to register that she was smiling shyly, and he returned it, resting his forehead on hers.

“You ok?” He asked. She nodded.

“Wanna go for a walk?” He said. Robin had definitely had her fill of clubbing energy for the year now, and she realized the things she now wanted to try and say didn’t fit being shouted over the heady pump of bassline, however nice it was to be so close to him when she did.

They collected her coat, and made their exit, and dared not to say goodbye to their party. Walking round the concourse, the strong breeze from the river made her shudder, and Strike put his arm around her, pulling her close as they ambled. Her head was clearing in the fresh air, and she wondered if the euphoria would too, but her heart was still thundering fast and he seemed in no hurry to put space between them. They stopped after a short while, away from the milling groups of people, and stood for a minute in companionable silence, looking out at the lights of the city over the Thames. Strike turned to her, taking both her hands in his and raising them both to his mouth in a gentle kiss, his eyes closed, and then holding them into his chest. He looked at her, and his expression stilled her breath for a few seconds.

“Robin,” he said, warmly and with affection, like he was hugging her name with his voice. “I need to say something.”

“Me too,” she said, and he seemed to pause, trying to gauge whether to let her go first or not. She didn’t let him finish the thought.

“Please don’t say you’re sorry,” she said. “Because I’m not.”

He was shaking his head. “No, I’m not sorry at all. I’m great. I just… I just needed to say it’s not Christmas, and it’s not drink. I didn’t want you to think I just got carried away. I mean, I did, but not because of anything that is nothing. I mean, it’s not nothing,” he stopped, sighing at how he’d managed to tangle his thoughts up. Robin laughed lightly and pulled one hand from his and put her fingers over his lips.

“No. It’s not nothing, Cormoran,” she said warmly. “Not from you, not from me.”

He smiled under her hand, and she ran it round to cup his cheek.

“Can we do it again?” He said, voice deep and low, his tone running with mischief.

“I shall be quite pissed off if we don’t,” Robin laughed, and then drew her face into a little more seriousness, just for a second. He responded in kind, looking at her intently, waiting.

“I’m not playing, ok? And I don’t think you are either,” she said, and was gratified by a shake of his head, affirming the sentiment.

“Never been more serious in my life,” Strike replied, and closed the now small distance between them, and she yielded to the kiss, his hands now completely wrecking what was left of her chignon, his big fingers raking through her hair as he resumed the passion she had felt from him on the dancefloor. For a split second, it flashed through her mind that the more you focus on something, the harder it is to resist colliding with it, and then her mind and senses were all Strike once more, and she was lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Christmas playlist here is - 
> 
> Step into Christmas, Elton John,  
> Santa Tell Me, Ariana Grande  
> All I Want For Christmas, Mariah Carey  
> Blame It On The Mistletoe, Ella Henderson
> 
> There's actually no way they could have been dancing to all of these songs in Building Six at the O2 because the Ella Henderson's Blame it on the Mistletoe was released this year, and quite apart from Covid meaning gatherings like this aren't happening, they WON'T be waiting this long to get together But for the purposes of storytelling and creating happy feels, it worked for this, so indulge me.

**Author's Note:**

> A request was made for a Strellcott Dancing/revelation of feelings fic, and I am a complete sucker for fluff. So Merry Christmas, and all that. I did think I might do it as a one shot, but I enjoyed the set up so much I decided it was well worth a bit more space to grow (not a euphemism)


End file.
